


MindLocked

by ohgeelato, raffinit



Category: Criminal Minds, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Everyone wanting to punch Sherlock, F/M, Hotch gets a coronary or very nearly, Hotch wanting to punch Sherlock, John in a bathrobe, M/M, Serial Killer, Sherlock and John in America, Sherlock driving Hotch up the wall, Solving crimes, UST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:36:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohgeelato/pseuds/ohgeelato, https://archiveofourown.org/users/raffinit/pseuds/raffinit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The BAU have a problem - their latest case is proving more complicated than they'd thought. Luckily for them, a certain consulting detective and his doctor are in America, and they want in. "You WILL need my help, agents, and you know where to find me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where Sherlock Annoys the BAU

**Author's Note:**

> This was written with raffinit, who finally got AO3, but still Google her, she writes amazing Criminal Minds fics!
> 
> So at first, I was all "WHOLOCK CROSSOVER" thanks to my Tumblr. Then, in one of those moments where a thought that's vaguely related to your previous thought pops into your head uninvited, I was suddenly all, "MINDLOCK CROSSOVER" and then I told raffinit, and then we got down to writing this.
> 
> raffinit writes most of the Criminal Minds POV, I write most of the Sherlock POV.

**{***}**

John walked into the apartment that they shared to see Sherlock meticulously taking his phone apart with a tiny screwdriver in the kitchen.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” John asked, though he almost immediately regrets his decision. He should have learned a long time ago never to ask Sherlock what he was doing unless he wanted an unnecessarily complicated explanation about something he would realize he had no interest in. He almost braced himself for the lengthy explanation. Instead he was – dare he say it? – pleasantly surprised when Sherlock merely said, “He wouldn’t stop calling me.”

Cautious, but curious, John asked again, “Who, exactly, are we talking about here?”

Sherlock stopped what he was doing, put down the screwdriver and turned to look at John exasperatedly, “Mycroft, John! Who else would I be talking about?”

“Ah. Of course,” John agreed quickly. There was no point in getting angry with Sherlock’s seemingly rude responses. John would rather not waste the time or effort. He went into the living room where he sat down on his couch and started reading the newspapers. He had barely read the first two sentences of the front page when he heard Sherlock’s voice from the kitchen again. “Aren’t you going to ask me why Mycroft’s been calling me?”

John paused, but folded the newspaper and put it down anyway. “No, but I get a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“He wants me to solve a crime he can solve perfectly himself. Something about the theft of some sensitive government papers, done over a long period of time, only recently discovered. Obviously an inside job but Mycroft’s too lazy to go through all of his staff.”

“So you…took your phone apart?” John asked in disbelief. Honestly, the two brothers just needed Mummy to come and break up their fighting, and they would get along so much better, John was sure of it.

Sherlock glared at John, then turned back towards his half-exposed phone and started reassembling it. John smirked, “Come to your senses then?” The taller man just muttered angrily, “Lestrade might call with another case.” Just as he said that, John’s phone started ringing. He began to reach for it, but Sherlock said crisply, “It’s Mycroft. Don’t answer it.” He glanced at the screen; Sherlock was right, it was Mycroft. “Don’t,” Sherlock warned again.

John shook his head, ignored his phone and went back to reading the newspaper.

About fifteen minutes, two missed phone calls from Mycroft and a lot of pacing in the kitchen later, Sherlock announced loudly to the whole apartment – that is, John – “We’re going to America.” John spluttered and nearly knocked over his cup of tea. “What? Wait…we?”

Again, the glare. “Yes, John. We. I couldn’t very well do without my attending doctor.”

“Why America?”

“Because Mycroft can’t call me there. Or at the very least, his reluctance to deal with another government just to get to me should deter him for a bit.”

There was no arguing with Sherlock when he set his mind on something so John just sighed, “America, was it?”

**{***}**

_“We believe the person we’re looking for is a white male in his late-30’s, of average build with an almost pristine record. He may seem harmless and friendly, but we strongly advise against anyone attempting to approach this man as he is believed to be of unsound mind....”_

Reid watched from the sidelines as JJ stood before the mass of cameras and voice recorders; flashes flickered bright and left them starry eyed as she gave the press their preliminary profile of their UnSub. It was standard procedure, but this time around, Spencer Reid wasn’t sure they had their profile as accurate as they wanted it. This was a case that was sensitive and trying – as were most of their cases – but this case pushed their time limit dangerously.

Four women were found in different parts of the county, brutally tortured and killed, and then hung upside down on lampposts in heavy traffic areas. Each of the locations was meticulously selected; each victim abducted in broad daylight and tortured for days before reappearing _ad mortem._ It was a confusing profile – this UnSub was organized, yet compulsive; sexually gratified yet abhorred by his victims. They had discussed long and hard, almost longer than they’re used to, and he knew that the rest of his teammates were equally dubious at the validity of their profile.

But he couldn’t call them out in front of the press. He may as well have taken his revolver from his holster and put it to his mouth.

His dark brown eyes glanced over to where Hotch and Emily stood; mirrored figures in their dark slacks and blazers as they shared a glance before staring out at the crowd of journalists and photographers before them. Reid noticed the way they seemed to watch the press with an even closer eye than usual – they were always suspicious of the media; rarely had it been their friend, but something about the uneasy shift in his Unit Chief’s stance told Reid that something was off about this moment.

It was then he knew why.

In startling synchrony, every single cellular phone in the room began to chirp noisily. His own phone vibrated against his thigh, alerting him of a text message, and Reid frowned as he pulled the phone from his pocket and read the message.

_‘Try again.’_

**{***}**

They settled into their respective hotel rooms – John had made sure to clarify; _two_ rooms – but the rooms were still adjoined. Sherlock wandered into John’s room while he was putting away his clothes. Without any preamble, Sherlock sat himself down on the bed and turned on the television. He started flipping through channels at a furious rate, stopping abruptly at what seemed to be a press conference of some sort.

“You’ve got a telly back in your room, Sherlock,” John reminded him. Sherlock waved him off with a curt, “Better signal reception here.” The dark-haired man seemed to be wholly engrossed with the press conference. John turned to watch too. A pretty blonde woman was speaking, “…may seem harmless and friendly, but we strongly advise against anyone attempting to approach this man as he is believed to be of unsound mind....”

The dark-haired man was already typing away on his phone, lightning fast, as only someone with plenty of practice can. He hit send and smiled triumphantly at the television. A split second later, the press conference was filled with the sound of phones beeping. Immediately John knew what he’d done. It’s an old trick that Sherlock’s relatively proud of.

“Sherlock-” John started to ask, but the man just showed John the screen of his phone over his shoulder. It was one sent message and all it said was just:

_‘Try again.’_

**{***}**

“Sherlock, we came here for a holiday? Not to get involved in cases in another country,” John reminded him. For the love of God, this was the first time Sherlock had even suggested anything akin to a holiday. And John was very ready for a holiday. London was getting a lot smaller… or maybe they were getting a bit too famous. Perhaps it was time to let the London press have a day off from the Sherlock-mania.

“I’m bored,” Sherlock enunciated simply, as if that explained everything.

“We’ve only just got here!” John very nearly bellowed.

The dark-haired man stood up so quickly that John involuntarily took a step back. “Yes, and I haven’t had anything to do for ten hours,” he said tightly.

“Right, and what will you do now? Pop over and help them solve their case? We’re not in London, Sherlock,” John tried to pound some sense into him. Bad enough that they have so much publicity in London, do they really have to go and make a ruckus here in America too?

Sherlock began to adjust his coat, pulling up its collars. “And hopefully their people are not as incompetent as Anderson.”

“I really don’t think the…” John glanced at the telly, “FBI will appreciate us butting our way in.” He did a double take the moment he realized what he just said. “The bloody FBI! We definitely cannot butt into their investigations.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Why? Afraid of a little authority, John?” he asked archly.

The shorter man almost laughed hysterically then sobered up and said rather seriously, “No, not really.” Sherlock cracked a smile at that. John said contemplatively, “So…the FBI now, eh? How do we…go about this?”

“ _We_ don’t have to do anything. They will come to us,” Sherlock said with absolute certainty. After living with Sherlock for so long, John knew better than to doubt the man. After all, there was a reason why he’s the world’s only consulting detective.

John nodded slowly, “Okay, so we go about our business, yeah, and wait for the FBI to turn up at our door.” That sounded even more ludicrous out loud than in his head. The laughter bubbled up from him slowly, but when he started it felt like he couldn’t stop. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed too, still laughing. Before long, even Sherlock was chuckling along a little. “God, of all things, the FBI!” John exclaimed in between his laughs. “We’ve been in the Buckingham Palace, why is this so hard to believe?” Sherlock asked, still smiling.

That stopped John mid-laugh. He thought about it for a second before replying, “We didn’t meet the Queen, did we? And I _am_ British, at least.”

“You nicked an ashtray.”

“Nope, that was you.”

“Which I gave to you, hence making you an accomplice.”

“Right, I’m not sitting here and arguing about an ashtray with you,” John said, standing up. He looked at his wristwatch. It was still set to British time. He didn’t think it was worth the bother to set it to American time now, only to have to reset it when they went back to London. He counted six hours backwards, and looked up to see Sherlock coming back into his room, with his violin in tow. “Why’d you bring that along?” the fair-haired man asked in dismay. One of the reasons he’d agreed to this trip was because he thought he might finally go through a week without Sherlock mimicking an injured cat on the violin. Sure, the man played well, but he was always so…aggressive with it.

“I thought I might get bored, and I am.”

John didn’t even bother to reply that. He closed his baggage and set it against the wall. With a towel and his bathrobe in hand, he walked towards the bathroom. Just as he closed the door behind him, Sherlock’s violin-playing began. He palmed his face. This holiday was not going the way he’d thought it would be. But then again, when does it ever with Sherlock?

**{***}**

Aaron Hotchner was _livid_. His temper flared hot, vein throbbing on his forehead as he turned to the rest of his team with his jaw locked tight. One look at their faces told him everything he needed to know – they’d gotten the same message.

Everyone in the room had gotten the same message.

His first thought was their UnSub. There would be no other person with motive to taunt the press and his team so – they’d profiled him as being unafraid of authority and daring. The number was unknown and foreign; had they missed the fact that he was not a local? There was nothing pointing to the fact. He seemed to know the locations intimately; more intimately than any person not originating from the state would. These were his parts of the woods, and he was letting them know it.

So who was it that dared mock them so?

“Get Garcia on the stream,” he growled, clear and dangerous as Emily moved off immediately to oblige him. She knew telltale emotions on his face well, and the man was not pleased in the slightest. There were little things that could sway the man, especially when in the public eye, but this UnSub was trying all of them. One dark glare in her direction, and Emily was dialing Garcia’s number on her phone.

_“Oh my God, I saw **everything**.”_

Emily pursed her lips grimly. “Then you’ll probably want to know that Hotch is about a minute away from shooting every single press member out here.”

 _“Oooh, dangerous,”_ the blonde gasped, and Emily could hear her fingers clacking away through the phone. _“I’m tracing as we speak – I’m hacking into your cell right now….”_ Emily motioned to the others; Reid, Morgan and Rossi moved towards her while JJ spoke discreetly to the press. Pressing her phone against her jaw, she regarded them seriously.

“This is going to blow this whole mess up even further,” Morgan growled. “The press is already getting at JJ like they want to get her in their mouths and shake her till she’s dead.”

Emily frowned at this, glancing at Hotch as the man met her gaze. One more nod from the man, and she turned back to Reid. “Garcia’s trying to trace the call now; we’ll need to do crowd control until she gets a hit.” She cast a speaking glance at Morgan and Rossi, and both the men nodded before moving off to where the blonde was being cornered by a flurry of bodies shoving cameras in her face.

“He’s not going to be so reckless,” Reid countered insistently. “If he wanted to get caught, he would’ve called instead. He taunting us; he wants us to know that we’ve missed a part of his profile -.”

 _“I got it!”_ Garcia cried, loud enough for Hotch and Reid to hear. _“I take no offense about my technological prowess there, Reid, but you’re buying me chocolate when you come home. Apparently your man isn’t as smart as he thinks he is. He left his cellphone on and open to Penelope Garcia’s magical finger skills to probe. He’s here, and he’s in a hotel room two blocks away.”_

Emily shared a look with Hotch. “This could be a trap,” she warned him.

The man’s brow furrowed and his face hardened. “If he wants attention, he’s getting it.”

They rounded the press up and informed the media of their new find; JJ and Rossi stayed behind to clean up the hectic mess, and the others donned their Kevlar. They made haste towards the hotel, with Garcia guiding them through their earpieces. Along the way though, Reid continued to profess his uncertainties with this man being their killer. It didn’t sit right with him; a man who was the youngest member of the BAU with eidetic memory and an IQ of 185.

There wasn’t many a time where Reid doubted their profile, but this time around, he couldn’t ignore his gut for much longer.

But he said nothing as they met with the local force outside the hotel, but cast one last dubious look in Hotch’s direction before grasping his revolver in his hands. Morgan moved seamlessly beside him, and the older agent gave Reid a nod that seemed to soothe his fears somewhat. If this wasn’t their UnSub, then Reid prayed that it was someone who would be able to lead them closer to the man they hunted.

They approached the door carefully; Hotch led by default, and Emily was to his immediate right. It was a split second of a signal before he watched Hotch’s foot rise up and kick the door, jumping as the door bounced against the wall behind it. Reid didn’t have time to recover, and he was suddenly amidst the rush of officers flooding the hotel room.

“FBI!”

There was a man sitting in the middle of the hotel room, perched in the only couch within the space; completely unfazed by the number of guns trained on his chest and face. Reid tilted his head and narrowed his eyes curiously at the blatant boredom that was on the man’s face. He had dark, curling hair and a pale complexion to his skin; he wasn’t a man of physical exertion or sunlight. This man had eyes of piercing blue that seemed to sear through even Hotch’s dark hazel glower, and his fingers that caressed the smooth planes of the violin in his hand were tapered and long.

This wasn’t their UnSub. 


	2. Where John Is Arrested In A Bathrobe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The BAU finds Sherlock and John but they're not quite sure what to do with them. That is, until Sherlock opens his mouth. Also, John is arrested in a bathrobe.

**{***}**

John was a very simple man to please. A bit of peace and quiet, a good shower, his favorite snug bathrobe and he was set. At least, until the next time Sherlock started annoying him again. Still, he thought as he put on his bathrobe, hopefully the consulting detective would be too preoccupied with the FBI thing to bother him for a bit. Maybe he could even do a little sightseeing without Sherlock. The thought cheered him up a great deal, and he was smiling to himself as he threw his towel over his shoulder, ready to leave the bathroom.  
  
Just as he was about to turn the doorknob, he heard a loud crashing from outside, and someone shouting, “FBI!” He froze. He hadn’t expected the sodding FBI to show up so quickly. A part of him admired the efficiency of the FBI, but another part was going, ‘I’m in my bathrobe.’  
  
Should he go out now? Should he wait till Sherlock had explained everything? What if they checked the bathroom and thought he was trying to hide from them in here? Would they shoot him on sight? _Do_ they shoot on sight? He tried to think of what little he knew of FBI procedures. After a split second of consideration, he decided he’d come out of the bathroom. He opened the door slowly, trying not to startle people with guns.  
  
A group of people, all with their guns out, were in the room. An older, grim-faced man and a brunette woman were pointing their guns at Sherlock, who was sat on the only couch in the room. The others – a tall, intimidatingly muscular man and a slighter and younger-looking man – had their guns trained on him. He raised his hands up.  
  
Sherlock merely said calmly, “John, this is the FBI.”

**{***}**

Emily frowned in confusion at the sight of the men; they hadn’t profiled a partner. Her frown deepened further when she heard the man on the couch speak– he was British, cultured and definitely not someone local. She raised an eyebrow at the man in the doorway of the bathroom, dressed in his bathrobe and looking rightfully bewildered. “Are you John Watson?” she demanded; Garcia had prattled off the details of the person the hotel room had been booked under, and judging by the name the dark haired man had uttered, the wide-eyed blonde man in the bathroom doorway was the person who had sent the text.

“Hullo,” John offered them lamely, even mustering the courage to wave stiffly at them. “Right, um, I’m not quite sure what Sherlock’s told you, but um. We’ve only just got here.”

She raised an eyebrow at his accent; English, cultured yet again. Neither of these men was a local. It didn’t take her skills in linguistics to conclude that – even Hotch seemed to be faltering in his step at the British man’s utterance. Still she glared at the man suspiciously. Accents were simple to imitate, given the experience and skill, and they had profiled their UnSub to be a man of above average intelligence. Most killers were of above average intelligence – she’d never say it aloud, but some perhaps had a higher IQ than Reid.

“Our Technical Analyst tracked a cellphone to this hotel room,” she told them, eyeing John dangerously; daring him to deny the allegation. When the man lowered his gaze to the one he called Sherlock, her grip on her gun tightened.

Sherlock spoke, and Hotch took a menacing step forward. “Yes, that would be my doing.” The man raised an eyebrow at the gun that was rather close to his face, blue eyes tracking up to the stone-set of Hotch’s face. His eyes flickered and darted about the federal agent, stowing away what information his body seemed to betray him of, and Sherlock smiled a slow, crooked smile. “I see you’ve been having trouble with apprehending your murderer, agent. It was a very close profile, but no dice, I’m afraid.”

Hotch scowled at the smirk on Sherlock’s face. Narcissistic UnSubs always tempted his temper; the fact that their hands were covered in blood seemed to get them off, and this man before him seemed to be no exception. “How do I know I’m not looking at him?” he growled.

From behind him, Reid appeared at his side, next to Emily. Hotch’s eyes darted to where the younger man was murmuring into the woman’s ear, brow furrowing at the way Sherlock was watching in amusement. He waited impatiently for Emily to turn to him, and stared at her expectantly.

“They’re not our UnSubs, Hotch,” she told him, lowering her gun slowly. The man was dubious still, but she motioned to the passports that lay open on the desk. “They’re fresh off the plane – they can’t possibly be our guy. They’re British.”

“And our UnSub is a man that is used to physical exertion and being exposed to the sun. He should be tan and with extensive upper body strength,” Reid piped up, glancing at John and Sherlock apologetically. “They’re…not.” He smiled awkwardly at them. “No offense.”

Sherlock inclined his head calmly. “None taken in the slightest,” he assured the man. He cast his sharp eyes in the younger man’s direction, eyes widening imperceptibly.

Presently Emily had managed to coax Hotch into lowering his gun, and the man now stood tense and distrustful before him. Hotch frowned still at Sherlock, not liking the way the man’s bright eyes seemed to probe into their minds and stared right through their Kevlar. He hadn’t doubted the fact that this man wasn’t their UnSub, but what troubled him was the fact that Sherlock could very possibly pass as one. Like Emily and Reid, he had seen the passports and taken note of the accents, but he had seen many an UnSub that matched Sherlock to a T.

He holstered his gun regardless. A jerk of his head and the rest of the SWAT team departed, leaving the BAU team to their own devices. Four trained FBI agents could handle themselves against two grown men, couldn’t they?

The world would end before Aaron Hotchner let another UnSub get the better of him.

“Right, well,” John began, shuffling around Morgan and Reid, eyeing the broad chested, muscular federal agent as he moved towards Sherlock. “I suppose it’s best that we be acquainted so we can stop pointing guns at each other, yeah?” He thrust out his hand awkwardly towards Hotch, swallowing nervously when the man eyed his hand before carefully accepting it. “Dr. John Watson, sir. The ah…man staring at your crotch is Sherlock Holmes.”

The rest of the room eyed Sherlock oddly as the man pulled his gaze from the front of Hotch’s pants swiftly, glaring at John petulantly. “I was looking at his belt buckle,” he muttered, before shooting the rest of the team members a beaming smile. “Sherlock Holmes; at your service.” He inclined his head in a bow of sorts – evidently, he wasn’t in the mood to get up out of his seat.

Hotch pursed his lips, but motioned towards the others. “I’m Agent Hotchner – these are my team members; Agents Prentiss and Morgan, and Dr. Reid.” Each of them nodded their heads at John and Sherlock, Reid waving at them awkwardly yet again. “You know why we’re here.”  
  
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said, at the end of that debacle, a steady gaze studying the FBI team. He stood up, breaking eye contact abruptly and said, “I can help you solve your case.”  
  
It wasn’t a suggestion, nor was it a question. It wasn’t an empty boast either. It was simply a statement, made by a man who was so confident in his abilities that he felt no need to reinforce his words with more words. The results would prove him right.  
  
Agent Prentiss shook her head and asked, “Who are you?”  
  
“The world’s only consulting detective. Look me up on the Internet.”  
  
John interrupted, “You’d have to click the second link, if you’re using Google.” His housemate frowned at him, clearly displeased.  
  
“What’s the first link?” Dr. Reid asked.  
  
“That’d be my blog,” John answered, trying not to smile or laugh or do anything that might give away his slightly perverse pleasure in knowing that his blog is infinitely more popular than Sherlock’s website. Sherlock’s frown deepened.  
  
“Your…blog?”  
  
“We solve crimes together, and then I blog about it.”

**{***}**

There was an uneasy silence, and questioning looks from the agents. John cleared his throat, trying to think of some way to validate his claims. They could just get a laptop and Google for the agents to see. He wished he’d asked the reception earlier for the password to the wireless. Or maybe one of the agents has one of those fancy phones that could go online? 

Agent Morgan, the wall of muscle that John assumed could probably smash both him and Sherlock into the hotel floor and send them into the floor below them, scoffed. “We busted wannabe detectives.” He shook his head derisively. “That’s fresh. Man, you realize you could just apply for the FBI or Scotland Yard or whatever it is that you have over there. You don’t need to run around playing pretend.”

“Kindly tell that to Mr. Holmes, please,” John muttered. Although he couldn’t help the anger and righteous indignation he felt at the FBI agent mocking Sherlock’s analytical skills. They didn’t know Sherlock – he’d have their man in a blink and two shakes if he wanted to. “He’s…different. He’s not like the Yard.”

Agent Prentiss raised an eyebrow. “Evidently,” she muttered. “This guy hacked into a private press conference of the FBI. If anyone at the Yard did that, we’d be looking at political collateral damage.” The thought of handling both American and British politics made her stomach roil. Emily hated politics, of every sort. Flying across the ocean hardly changed anything.

Dr. Reid though, seemed more curious about Sherlock than anyone else. “What exactly is a consulting detective?” he questioned the man. “Are you a PI of some sort?”

A slow, crooked smile spread across Sherlock’s face. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

Before any of them could say anything, Sherlock turned towards Agent Hotchner.

“Agent Hotchner,” he said in a low voice. John knew that tone of voice, has heard it countless times, and has actually been subject to it several times himself. It was the tone Sherlock adopted whenever he was about to….present his analytical deduction. 

The consulting detective started, speaking so fast even John needed a few seconds to catch what he was saying at first, “Your clothes are creased in corners and rumpled; evidently they’ve been worn a while. Since it’s only slightly past midday, I’d say you didn’t go home last night. Your fingertips have smudges of black ink; you were at the office then, going through this case, thumbing through records and documents.” 

He stopped for a split second, presumably to catch his breath, and continued, “You had a wife, who left you a while ago, suggested by the fading tan line on your ring finger; she probably left because of your obvious workaholic nature. Also, your clothes, despite being crumpled, are worn immaculately, so you wouldn’t let just anyone tie a wonky tie for you. You have a child then, maybe a son, still not too good with a tie. And now this was a little tricky; your gun holster is on your right hip and your dominant hand while holding your gun was your right hand, yet there are writing calluses _and_ the ink stains are on your left hand. So, I’d say you’re ambidextrous. Have I got that right, Agent?” he ended, a triumphant smile on his face.

Silence in the room again, though this time it was more of the stunned variety.

And suddenly, Agent Hotchner had a gun pointed at Sherlock again. John instinctively took a step towards Sherlock, but was stopped in his tracks when two guns pointed his way. “Alright, alright,” he said, putting his hands up again. He heard Sherlock scoff, just a tiny little bit, and from where he was, he could clearly see a look of arrogance on Sherlock’s face.

Agent Hotchner tensed and his finger looked dangerously close to squeezing the trigger of the gun. John wanted to say something, do _something_ before anything happened, but just then, Agent Prentiss wrapped her hand around Agent Hotchner’s wrist.

“Hotch,” she said, still gripping his wrist. He glanced at her and then turned to look at Sherlock again. In what was another one of those moments where time seemed to stop, Agent Hotchner finally lowered his gun. The other two men followed suit. Before any of them could comment on what just happened, Agent Hotchner was on the move again, this time twisting Sherlock’s arm around his back and handcuffing his hands together.

“What do you think you’re doing?” John protested. Oddly enough, Sherlock still had a glimmer of smile on his face. How that man could stay so calm under such dire circumstances was beyond John. Perhaps Sherlock would have done well at Afghanistan. Perhaps he would have coped better with it. But John shook all thought of the war from his mind; no point dwelling on it, especially when something dangerous was happening _right now_.  n

“Arresting your partner for interfering with a federal case,” Agent Hotchner said through gritted teeth. The underlying reason was of course, glibly ignored by the rest of his team.

“He is _not_ my partner, _not_ that way,” John said instantly. It was almost a reflex now, though nobody ever listened. And he was right, no one listened, or at least, no one responded to it. “Well, then are you going to arrest me too?” John asked, a hint of belligerence in his voice.

“I thought you said you weren’t his partner,” Agent Morgan retorted, definitely not smiling, though there was something in his voice that sounded as if he was mocking or teasing John. “Oh, so finally someone hears what I say,” John said. Agent Morgan smirked and glanced at Dr. Reid. Even John caught the look Dr. Reid shot back at the man. He cleared his throat, “We are partners, sort of. Just not…oh, you know what, just forget it.” He simply walked up to the man and threw a punch at his face. Not too hard, he didn’t want to actually draw blood, just aggravate the man enough to be arrested. He didn’t have to worry though, Agent Morgan barely reeled back from the punch. But it did achieve what John wanted; he was, quite suddenly, down on the ground, his left cheek pressed against the musty hotel carpet, with his hands twisted behind his back. He could feel the sharp bite of handcuffs snapping over his wrists.

He grinned at Sherlock from across the room. Sometimes, he questioned where his sanity had disappeared off to since he met Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Where Hotch Tries Not To Punch Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are interrogated by the BAU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's actually really HARD to write a story with two different people from two different fandoms with different ideas and opinions who live extremely far away from each other. But huzzah for Google Docs, literally the most useful thing for co-authors. Though the conversations we sometimes have in between writing this is HILARIOUS.
> 
> We get distracted. VERY easily.
> 
> Also, this chapter is EXACTLY 3000 words. :D

**{***}**

They were in the lockup at the police station. And John was still in his bathrobe.

He’d realized his mistake the moment they were escorted out of the hotel. He’d looked down at his bathrobe, then at the other hotel patrons who were staring at the bizarre sight of two men being arrested, _one of whom was wearing a bathrobe_. He had felt the heat of embarrassment crawl its way up the back of his neck and to his cheeks. He’d stared at nothing but the ground the entire journey from the hotel to the police station, where actual police officers had stopped what they were doing to look at them. Sherlock was not helping, with his proud head held high, regarding everyone loftily, literally challenging everyone _to_ look.

Then they were shoved roughly into lockup where they were left alone. As much as Sherlock had been aggravating the BAU team to get arrested, probably due to some mad plan of his, the dark-haired man really did not do well with having nothing to do. He started pacing the cell almost as soon as they were alone. The sharp tapping his shoes made on the cold floor only made John feel more miserable.

 _Bathrobe_ , he thought morosely, sat on the bench in the lockup.

__

Sherlock suddenly stopped pacing and swirled to look at John. “You’re still in your bathrobe,” he stated matter-of-factly.

John glared at Sherlock - reminding himself firmly that, no, Sherlock _cannot_ read minds - and replied, “The FBI didn’t exactly give me time to change before arresting me.”

“Why did you punch Agent Morgan?”

That flummoxed John. He wasn’t quite sure why now, but at that time, he had thought it was a good idea. Well, no, he hadn’t thought it was a good idea, but it was an idea and it was the only one he had at that time, so…. “What was I going to do with you arrested?”

The taller man looked like he was about to answer the question at length when they were interrupted by the cell door being unlocked. Both men turned to see who was coming in. It was Dr. Reid and in his hands, was a change of clothes. John rejoiced inwardly.

Reid offered the men an awkward, tight smile as he proffered John the items. “I, uh, thought you might be more comfortable in these,” he said uncertainly, obviously trying to conclude, in his brain, how to be nice to a man that punched Morgan in the face.

John answered with a grateful smile of his own. “Thanks,” he said, taking his clothes off Reid, who turned his back to give John some privacy to change. John glared balefully at Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows but also turned his back. The ex-army doctor quickly discarded the bathrobe and changed into the clothes Reid gave him. He was even more relieved when he realized that the clothes were his own; Reid must have grabbed it before they left.

“Alright, I’m done,” he announced.

Turning back, Reid regarded the pair again, this time with an even closer scrutiny as he took in the tall, pale man and his stockier companion. “You probably shouldn’t have punched Morgan,” he told John. “We would’ve brought you in too; it’s standard procedure.”

Of course, now that he _had_ punched Morgan in the face, they were probably going to write him up anyway.

“Ah, sorry about that,” John apologized sincerely.

Reid seemed to shrug, although the move was rather translucent; he was rather miffed at John punching Morgan after all. “I guess you did what was necessary.” He glanced at Sherlock before his eyes seemed to brighten in an almost schoolboy glee as he turned back to John. “I read your blog about the cases you solved. It’s actually all very fascinating how you do it.” To Sherlock, he asked, “Did you really guess the Woman’s measurements, or was it somewhere else? I can never accurately tell a woman’s chest size.”

“Not that I frequently stare at a woman’s chest,” he added swiftly, flushing a dim pink when the corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked into a wry smirk.

John didn’t even bother to talk about how it was _his_ blog that Reid had read; it was Sherlock’s time to shine. Of course, no one knew that better than Sherlock himself. A slow smile spread across his face, “It’s simple, of course. Body measurements can be accurately deduced through relative measure. Also, I spend a lot of time scrutinizing body measurements; very useful in cases, as was proven with…the Woman.”

John paid close attention to Sherlock as he said that. Mycroft was convinced that the topic of Irene Adler was still a trigger for Sherlock and had insisted John keep an eye on things, so to speak. The fair-haired man, unlike the elder Holmes brother, wasn’t so sure about Sherlock’s emotional vulnerability. Would the most logical, scientific and rational man he’s ever known be so easily swayed by emotions? After all, from what Mycroft told him, Sherlock had methodically revealed Irene Adler’s feelings for him and then cruelly rebuffed those feelings by keying in the password to her phone and walking away. That wasn’t the action of a man ensnared by…feelings, was it?

But watch Sherlock he did anyway, just to be safe.

Meanwhile, Reid wasn’t sure how to process Sherlock’s answer to his question. “So…you’re a professional peeping Tom?”

Sherlock gave Reid a look that suggested he thought he was talking to a child. “Of course not. I work with corpses often for a myriad of reasons-”

John coughed not too subtly, “Experiments, you mean.”

The consulting detective shot him a reproving glare before continuing, “The corpses provide me with a variety of body measurements to catalogue.”

Ah, that made a lot more sense to Reid. Although it didn’t necessarily make Sherlock any less creepy to Reid. That just meant that Sherlock now profiled as a high functioning sociopath with a preference to necrophilia, perhaps. Very swiftly, their UnSub’s profile ran through his head, and the young federal agent couldn’t accurately place necrophilia as part of the profile. The sexual acts were all performed _ante-mortem_.

Still though – thus far, Sherlock Holmes profiled as scary.

“Do you work for a college of some sort?” Reid inquired. “It’s rather difficult to gain access to cadavers in the name of experimentation. Most of our cadavers are donated to medical students and science.”

“St. Bart’s Hospital in London allows me access to their morgue and laboratories. I utilize them,” Sherlock said simply.

“And they just let you? Why?” Reid asked.

“They got tired of kicking me out eventually,” Sherlock said, like he was merely commenting on the weather. “And Mycroft – my brother – did help explain to the dean of the hospital that my work was of absolute necessity.”

John rolled his eyes. He’d asked Mycroft about that once. The elder Holmes had explained that he’d thought Sherlock would at least have a contained ‘playground’ to conduct his experiments at the hospital. “This is a safe hobby for him, John. Surely you understand that?” Mycroft had said condescendingly. That was a reason why John disliked talking to Mycroft. He always managed to sound so smug, even more than Sherlock. That, and also the fact that Mycroft had a tendency to kidnap people just to talk to them.

He needed to have a talk with the Holmes brothers’ mother one day; ask her where her two sons got all their little oddities.

Just then, Agent Morgan walked into the lock-up too. He glared at John, who was suddenly painfully aware that he had punched the man. Agent Morgan spoke directly to Reid, probably trying to exclude the other two men out of the discussion, “Hotch wants them in the interrogation room.” He cast a dark glower in Sherlock’s direction.

Reid nodded, “Okay.”

Sherlock and John shared a look; it was obvious even to John that the older man wanted nothing more than to write them up for assault and interfering with a federal case and pass Sherlock off as the UnSub, but unfortunately he couldn’t. For one, there was a real serial killer out there somewhere, and second of all; Morgan wasn’t as vindictive.

At least, John hoped he wasn’t. He couldn’t really tell with these FBI-types. They were all so righteous and mysterious. It all seemed rather uppity to John, and _he’s_ English.

Reid and Morgan escorted the two of them to the interrogation room. When it came to assisting the captive men into their seats, Morgan had taken a none too gentle approach, and shoved John rather roughly into the cold metal chair. Reid had taken the gentler choice; nervously pulling out the chair and gesturing towards it to allow Sherlock to lower himself into his seat.

“Nice, uh, interrogation room you have here,” John fished awkwardly for something nice to say, as he adjusted himself to a more comfortable position on the chair.

Being arrested and being interrogated in a foreign country should have him more intimidated, but he’d been through some pretty tough spots during his time in the army and then later on, with Sherlock. Besides, he thought sarcastically, he was really on the right track with befriending these apparently tough-as-nails FBI agents.

Suddenly, Sherlock straightened up in his chair and said, impatience lacing his every word,  “So, let’s get this over with. The fun part hasn’t even begun yet.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you’re gonna wish _I_ was the one doing the interrogating by the time Hotch is done with you.” He cast a cold smirk in Sherlock’s direction. “Calling him out in front of the press? It doesn’t matter who you are on the other side of the ocean, buddy. Here on our soil, we do things our way. Don’t think he’s gonna let the fact that you’re challenging him _at his job_ slip by him.” He spun on his heels, and Reid followed obediently out of the room.

With just him and Sherlock in the small room, John suddenly realized that the wall opposite them was clearly a two-way mirror. Despite his circumstances (punched an FBI agent in the face, arrested in his bathrobe, locked in an interrogation room), he thought it was really funny that reality seemed to match all the American crime shows he sometimes watched with Mrs Hudson back home. Wait till he gets back and tell her that.

Ah, home. How he wished he was there right now, sat on his comfortable armchair, with a nice cup of piping hot tea. Maybe with a good show on telly. Maybe even with Sherlock doing his experiments in the kitchen.

He was snapped out of his wishful thinking when the door opened to reveal Agent Hotchner. Happy was not a word John would’ve used to describe the man. He was thinking more along the lines of ‘terrifying’, ‘homicidal’, ‘frustrated’, and perhaps even just a little bit ‘constipated’. Although this amused him for but a brief moment, John was pulled back into the reality of their situation with the startling slap of the brown case file onto the steel table.

“I see you’ve found a pair of pants to put on,” Hotch uttered coldly, pulling out a chair across of them and seating himself with a sort of fuming grace. His dark eyes glanced at Sherlock in a steely glare as he flipped the case file open and began reading.

“Sherlock Holmes, born December 2nd 1978, aged 34 -.”

“Thirty three. It’s not December yet,” Sherlock corrected immediately. John saw Agent Hotchner’s jaw clenching, like he was resisting the urge to punch Sherlock in the face. It wasn’t really from any deduction skills of John’s; everyone who met Sherlock inevitably wanted to punch him in the face, usually within the first five minutes.

Hotch continued, “Brother of Mycroft Holmes, a civil servant of the British government; _a consulting detective_.” Here the man looked up at the pair before him, disdain practically dripping from his voice and the look on his face. A consulting detective was not unheard of, of course, but in their terms, they were more simply known as private investigators. Regardless of title, many of these ‘consulting detectives’ were usually profiled as thrill-seeking sociopaths.

“I’m not sure how they do things in your country, Mr. Holmes, but here we don’t necessarily enjoy private investigators encroaching on federal cases.” The steely glare still affixed on the man’s face was daunting, as was the cold, calculative tone of his voice, but Sherlock seemed superciliously ignorant towards the man’s obvious dislike for him.

It did not sit well with Hotch’s temper, but the man was known for his impeccable control; the only obvious sign of his displeasure was the darkening of his brow and the tick in his jaw. His voice remained cool, level. “But since you’ve already seemed to insinuate yourself into our investigation, you might as well explain to us what you think we need to ‘try again’ at.”

Sherlock’s eyes glittered with anticipation, “Your deductions about the suspect, of course.”

Hotch waited but a split second, expecting the man to continue explaining how his team had somehow missed out something key in their profile, but Sherlock merely sat back in his seat, looking rather pleased and expectant. Was he expecting Hotch to _ask_ him to help them? Many UnSubs tempted them the same way; _I know something you don’t know, and you won’t get anything out of me unless you cater to my ego._

_Make me feel like you need me, and I just may help you._

As much as the Unit Chief of the BAU would like to simply throw Sherlock back into his cell and have him deported by the end of the day, something in the man’s startling blue eyes told Hotch that whatever it was that he was missing, it was important.

So he swallowed the growl in his throat (and his pride), and asked. “What have we missed?”

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, eager to impart his observations, “Your team deduced that the suspect would seem harmless or friendly; in fact, based on the other evidence, your suspect would be the exact opposite - being reclusive and introverted. Most likely a loner with not much social interaction. And he abducted these women in broad daylight without anyone noticing. Someone who passes, unnoticed, wherever they go. Someone we trust, without any reason to. A plumber, or an electrician-”

“-Or a cab driver!” John exclaimed, the familiarity of Sherlock’s last two sentences reminding him of the first case they worked on together.

The consulting detective glowered at John; he didn’t like being interrupted, especially when he was proving a point.

Hotch was unimpressed. “We’re not idiots, Mr. Holmes,” he snapped, bristling at the smug undertone of the man’s explanations. “We’re trained profilers who come face-to-face with these kinds of monsters on a daily basis. Surely we would’ve already considered this thought of his profession early on into our investigation. We profiled him to have a job that allowed him to move seamlessly through the crowd; go unnoticed while driving a vehicle large enough to transport a body. You’re doing nothing but _stating the obvious_ at this point.”

Sherlock was taken aback, to say the least. He was used to people asking him to piss off, or calling him an unfeeling monster, or even John’s slack-jawed admiration. Regardless of what they have felt about him _as a person_ , his deductions have never failed to impress, even if it wasn’t always admitted. Except with Moriarty, but that was...different.

This, though... This was new. He’d never had his deductions completely ridiculed and...and sneered at. For the first time in his life, Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say next.

Actually, come to think of it, this wasn’t the first time. In fact, lately, he’d been caught at a loss for words far too many times for his liking. This had to stop.

Hotch stared hard at the man for a long moment; unblinking and unmoving as he watched the expressions on Sherlock’s face morph from smug and condescending to stunned and confused, and most importantly, chastised.

He watched, intrigued, as Sherlock seemed to rush to compose himself; straightening in his seat and inhaling deeply through his nose as if to sniff at the federal agent. The impassive glance once again was on Sherlock’s face - saving what dignity and pride he had left.

Hotch figured it was mostly pride.

Very calmly, he turned to John, who had previously been nothing more than a fly on the wall. After all; all he had done was punch Morgan in the face, and Hotch knew that was mostly to ensure that they were both arrested together. John didn’t seem the type to intervene in a police investigation, although if John was the kind of man to have friends like Sherlock, Hotch couldn’t be sure anymore.

“What do you have to say about this?” he questioned now, watching as John seemed to dart a nervous glance in Sherlock’s way. “You seemed intent on being at your partner’s side through all this.”

“ _Not_ ,” John enunciated sharply, “my partner. We’re flatmates. And colleagues. Sort of. I wasn’t going to let him get arrested by himself.” Then, despite himself, a small smile formed on his face, “I wanted to see what happened next.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow at the statement, prepared to open his mouth and tell John that his intense curiosity was not normal, but was stalled when the interrogation room door opened, and in the light stood JJ.

She cast a grave look at her Unit Chief. Something was wrong.

“There’s been another body.”

Immediately Hotch was on his feet, ready to leave the pair and face the harsh reality of their UnSub striking again while they were busy on a wild goose chase, but Sherlock’s smug baritone echoed through the room.

“You _will_ need me, agents, and you know where to find me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaand, that's it, possibly for a while. This was all we had done when I started posting this here, and we're currently working on Chapter 4 but it's slow going because raffinit's busy with all her fabulous Criminal Minds WIPs and I'm busy with my own WIPs....but we promise to see this through!


	4. Where the UnSub Throws a Tantrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's been a major development in the case, Hotch's anger is a sight to behold and Rossi makes a significant appearance here. Also, Sherlock gets tired of being put down and John gets tired of being a bumbling fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love you all for loving this fic and we are INCREDIBLY sorry for the long delay in updates, but we've both been so busy; raffinit is juggling classes and a part-time job and ohgeelato is swamped with her new full-time job. To make up for the tardiness, here's a rather lengthy update!

**{***}**

_It was dark, and wet, and cold. The air was thick and smothering, enveloping her like a thick blanket. There was the smell of damp, rot, and blood; the salty taste of her blood and her tears caught in the cloth in her mouth, and she smothered the shuddering sob of horror and fear._

_Fear._

_The room reeked of stale fear._

_How many had there been before her? Whose life had last hung here, begging, pleading and sobbing as she did?_

_Perhaps there were many. Perhaps there were few._

_The only thing she knew for sure was that she was one of them._

_The bindings on her wrists cut deep into her skin, cold and unforgiving as blood old and new dried against the metal. It dripped and matted her skin, running down her arms like rust-scented tattoos. The blood moved over the bruises and the wounds; it was hard to tell what was really there and what was a play of shadows on her skin. It seeped into her clothes - what was left of her clothes - as she struggled to keep her body on her feet._

_She hurt everywhere._

_There were things he’d done to her that she hadn’t thought the human body could withstand. But oh, how wrong she had been. Every scream from her mouth, every sob from her throat only seemed to spur the monster further; made him find more ways to get her begging._

_She wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand it._

_The door slammed open, and he marched in with a frustrated air trailing behind him. She jumped, pressing herself painfully against the wall that bound her, almost as if the blood-stained cement could save her from his tortures. Fresh hot tears ran down her face and she whimpered as he came to her in an angry blur._

_Her broken jaw brought stars to her eyes as he gripped it mercilessly tight in his large hand. His face was so close to hers; the vile stench of his breath reeked of liquor and spite, and her vision blurred in tears of horror as he forced her to look him in the face._

_“They think they can bury me,” he spat, gripping her face so hard it bruised even as he held it. “They think they can IGNORE me?!”_

_He released her face with a shove, deaf to her violent sobbing and muffled pleas; the tears that streamed down her face only worked to set more fuel to the fire. “YOU DO NOT IGNORE ME!” he roared at her, and the mad gleam in his eyes sent brutal chills of terror down her spine. “I’ll show them. I’ll show them what I can do. I’ll show them why you don’t ignore me.”_

_She found her wide-eyed terror staring back at her in the steel of the knife that came upon her suddenly. It was the last thing she would remember seeing; her death mask._

**{***}**

He moved in a surge of power, a force to behold as he swept through the makeshift bullpen in fast, controlled strides. His temper was roiling as it was, and the news of a new victim was going to give him more than a few grey hairs by the end of the day. Where he moved, people cleared the way; where his eyes landed, people cowered in fear.

The man known to his people as the Titan was now _boiling_ in his temper.

“What do we have?” he demanded, low voice thunderous as the dark edge of his brow. Hotch had little patience for much at the moment; he wanted answers and he wanted them now.

JJ rushed to keep pace with his strides, moving in a flurry to meet his long legs. “Another Jane Doe, found this morning by the morning paper boy, hanging upside down on a pole.” She paused in her step and stared after the man. “Hotch.”

There was something in her tone that brought him to a screeching halt, and the BAU Unit Chief stood tense and impatient as he spun on his heels back to her. His dark eyes bore holes into her face, so sharp that JJ avert her eyes and found no strength inside her to meet his gaze. There was always something about the way he looked at them all; the intensity of his gaze, without words, could shame them. Finally she summoned the courage to face the Titan, and raised her eyes slightly.

He met her low gaze and grit his teeth as she spoke.

“There are some things a little...different about this body,” she told him slowly, each word carefully spoken; like the careful treading of a soldier through a minefield. This new information was going to send the profiler into an all out attack - he was going to hold Sherlock Holmes down and beat him into the ground, if only because of the runaround he caused.

Hotch’s face was livid but controlled; the raging storm beneath the calm was one that made JJ swallow nervously. “What,” he growled, the vowel stretched. “Did he. Leave.”

JJ licked her lips uncertainly. “He branded her,” she said. “And he left a note. For us.”

In a split second, it was as if something had clicked in his brain; it was like a twitch on his face, as Hotch’s face clouded over thunderously and the man snarled. He snarled like a displeased lion; a belligerent wolf baring its teeth as he spun back on his heels and marched down the hall to where the team was gathered. He found them huddled over a desk, most likely reading the damned note left, and looked up at his billowing entrance.

Morgan spoke first, all too painfully aware of the rage rolling off their Unit Chief like molten lava. His own temper was flaring, having been the one that had protested entirely against involving Sherlock Holmes any more than deporting his English ass back to London. “This was _exactly_ what we were trying to avoid!” he growled, thrusting the note down onto the desk and whirling away to pace madly by the large board of case information. He snorted, much like a bull, hands clenched in tight fists at his side.

“Give me FIVE MINUTES alone with him, Hotch! Just five minutes, and I’ll make Holmes wish he never set foot on our grounds!”

The sudden outburst of Morgan’s low roar startled them, and Emily whirled on her partner. “Derek, calm down!” she insisted, firm but even then she could definitely understand why Morgan wanted to beat Sherlock Holmes into a pulp. _She_ wanted to beat him into a pulp, and she was the type to prefer cleaner, more controlled methods of death.

Like a bullet to the temple. There were easier ways to hide a bullet wound.

“What does it say?” Hotch demanded, quiet voice almost as effective as a roar. He wasn’t the kind of man to verbally express his anger; if anything, Hotch was a man who grew dangerously quieter as his temper worsened.

Rossi scowled. “You don’t want to read it,” he warned the man, but the determined look on Hotch’s face told the rest of them that they’d damn well start telling him things or there’d be Hell to pay for.

Hotch’s mouth twitched into a scowl, and they could swear that there was very little else that was as terrifying. He marched over to the desk, barely sparing Reid as the younger man nervously leapt back in his seat, dropping the note onto the table as the man snatched it up.

“Hotch, I really don’t think you should read that right now -,” Reid sputtered.

“Watch me,” the man uttered coldly, and Reid stared up at the man in fear, throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly and gave his Unit Chief a meek nod.

Emily stepped forward at the vicious rumble, the movement catching his attention as Hotch began to read the note. She waited until his eyes met hers, and she gave him a serious, flat look until the tense coils of his shoulders lowered somewhat, and his dark eyes weren’t glowing embers. “We can’t work this case if we let him antagonize us.”

Her blunt tone brought another scowl from the man, but the rage seemed tempered, as if he wasn’t ready to unleash it - not on her. “If he’s gaining the confidence from a stupid _mistake_ we made -.”

“We didn’t _make_ a mistake,” she countered mercilessly. “We took measures to apprehend an interference in our case.” She stared hard at him; they’d handled these things before - why was it that the Englishman was getting under his skin so?

“It cost us a woman!” Hotch snapped heatedly; the note was crumpled in the tight fist his hand had curled into. “Our job is to _stop_ these men, Prentiss, not give them a window of opportunity to act out again.” He glared at her - they were arguing, and arguing over what he thought to be something there shouldn’t be reason to argue about. It was _his_ call whether or not he wanted to read the damn note or not!

Emily shifted her weight onto her left leg, folding her arms as she met his dark glare almost unwaveringly as her own eyes flashed with irritation. “We are stopping him, _sir._ We’re just going to have to do it without that vein in your head threatening to pop.”

They stared at each other for a long, tense moment; one waiting for the other to attack in some way, and neither making any notion to continue the spat. Their eyes were liquid heat though; speaking things that none of the others could properly interpret - they could be talking of arousal and sex, or perhaps death and bludgeoning with sharp and heavy objects. It was difficult to say.

All they knew was that it was wisest not to get caught in the crossfire. Both dark haired agents had notoriously wicked tempers.

Eventually the pair tore their eyes from each other and Emily took a step away; physically distancing herself from the occasion and very calmly staring at her Unit Chief expectantly. She knew she had won this round; she was just waiting for him to admit it. If it was going to kill him with a massive coronary, she was going to get him to yield.

His nostrils flared as he inhaled heavily, and Hotch scowled at the woman before he remembered the crinkle of paper in his hand, and brought the rumpled note up to read. He ignored Reid’s sputter again, and began to translate the messy scrawl.

 

_YOU DO NOT GET TO STEAL MY WOMEN. THESE WERE NOT HIS KILLS TO MAKE. THEY WERE MINE, ONLY MINE. I HUNTED THEM, I TOOK THEM FROM UNDER YOUR NOSES AND I MADE THEM BEG. THOSE WHORES WERE **MY** MASTERPIECES. THEY ARE **MINE**. YOU CANNOT IGNORE ME ANYMORE._

_I WILL NOT BE INVISIBLE ANY LONGER. I WILL SHOW YOU WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU IGNORE ME._

__He hadn’t realized his grip had become so deadly tight on the paper, but it was. It took a moment for him to process the words in front of him; to profile and take note of the graphological connections, and to calm his temper. When he found that his forehead had ceased pounding, Hotch calmly raised his gaze to his team.

“Prentiss, Rossi - I’d like you to sit in on Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. Separate them; Prentiss, you take Watson. Rossi; Holmes. Try to get what you can from Watson about Sherlock Holmes that we can use. I’ll need more to convince me he’s not our UnSub and I shouldn’t already be strapping him into the Chair.”

Morgan looked apoplectic. “You’re actually letting that son of a bitch in on this case? He caused this!” His dark eyes were incredulously wide, as his large hand whipped through the air in an angry gesture towards the interrogation room. “Our UnSub is devolving _because of him_ , Hotch, and you want him in on this case!?”

Clearly the man wasn’t thinking straight!

“Then what would you wish for me to do?” Hotch countered evenly, face unreadable as he calmly lowered the note back onto the table. “If we charge him, deport him, he’ll probably just walk a circle around us and do this behind our backs. He’s the type to break the law at a blink - we’ve already been made fools of ourselves enough.”

At the sharp retort, Morgan stepped back, fuming quietly as his Unit Chief turned to Emily and Rossi. He was right, and there was no mistaking the temper hidden beneath his calm facade - Hotch was just at the precipice of his control; one last push, and those men were sitting pretty on a plane back to London by the end of the day.

Hotch darted a glance at Emily first, then Rossi. There was a mutual understanding between the three; a common ground they stood on pertaining to the British ‘consulting detective’ and his role in their case. If they couldn’t get information out of the man, they could use him as bait.

“If Sherlock Holmes wants to sing, we’ll give him a God damn microphone.”

**{***}**

Sherlock sat in the interrogation room, calm as you please, his fingers steepled while he just...waited. Oddly enough, the man was quite good with waiting as long as it was a definite prelude to something exciting.

John was still a little uncomfortable at how the interrogation had went. Hotch had completely pummelled Sherlock’s observations, coming just a little short of calling Sherlock stupid. Usually, he would feel indignant, because _really_? Sherlock? _Stupid_? Sherlock was many things - an arsehole, a dickhead, an annoying little brat - but stupid was most definitely not one of those things.

But Hotch had made sense. Which was why John was uncomfortable with it. To admit that Sherlock could make such an elementary mistake was to admit that there was a possibility of him _not_ being the great man John had come to think of him as.

Suddenly he remembered what Lestrade had told him once, “ _Sherlock Holmes is a great man. Someday, if we’re lucky, he might even be a good one_.”

He sighed; Sherlock Holmes was...complicated, to say the least. He was every bit the cold, analytical mind that everyone said he was, but sometimes, just _sometimes_ , John caught just the smallest glimmer of the heart beneath the mind.

John fidgeted in his chair. It was best he not dwell on these thoughts. And lucky too, that at that exact moment, Emily and an older man walked into the interrogation room.

Sherlock looked up dispassionately, waiting for the newcomers to speak first. John was apprehensive. Was this the part where the FBI convict them of something officially? Was this the part where they get deported back? God, that would be embarrassing.

“This is Special Agent David Rossi.” Emily cleared her throat and gestured for John to stand. “Come with me,” she requested, in a voice that brooked no argument or alternative. He was going to follow her, or she was going to make him.

John glanced at Sherlock; they were separating them to be interrogated then. Something had definitely happened with the murders. “Sure,” he replied, and stood to go after the tall brunette. He cast one fleeting glance back at Sherlock, and caught the almost imperceptible nod in his direction.

 _Go; things will be handled_.

__

Once the door was shut and Emily and John were gone, Rossi began to speak. “There have been new...developments in the case,” he said carefully. He’d been warned about the British duo. Sherlock nodded his head, as if prompting Rossi to go on and quickly.

“I hear you’re a consulting detective?” Rossi asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered curtly.

“And you say you can help?”

“Yes,” Sherlock reiterated, irritation laced in his tone.

“How exactly can you help?” Rossi had heard from Emily that the dark-haired British man had profiled Hotch at the hotel they were in. The consequences of that little show were not unexpected, to say the least.

“If you bring me to the crime scene, I’ll _show_ you how,” Sherlock said, leaning forwards in his chair. Maybe finally, they were seeing things his way. But why had they taken John away? He wondered briefly about what Emily and John were talking about, but then refocused on Rossi.

“Or if you show me the bodies of the victim,” Sherlock insisted. Anything, just give him _any_ little thing and he can get started. Fine, he’d admit he’d been wrong; coming to America on a whim wasn’t the best idea he’d had. If anything, it was even more boring than London on a dreadfully crime-free day. But now, he’d found something interesting and he wanted to be a part of it.

Rossi frowned incredulously, thinking on Sherlock’s request - well, not really a request, more a demand, but who was keeping tabs - and then he shook his head. “Hate to break it to you, Mr. Holmes, but we don’t just let any old Private Dick walk around on our crime scenes and peek in on our bodies. This is real life; not some fancy crime series.”

Sherlock was getting frustrated; what would it take for him to be let on the case? He just wanted to solve a murder or two. Out of the blue, he suddenly wished John was here. At least John can be trusted to back up the fact that he’s not just ‘any old Private Dick’. Not that he needed John for that, but he’d gotten used to John’s moral support.

“If all you’re going to do is tell us things we already know, you’re not going to be of much help, Mr Holmes. I’ve handled my share of wise guys like you in my line of work - you think you know something we don’t, but the truth is pal, you don’t.”

Sherlock slammed his hand on the table. He wasn’t going to be rendered speechless again. But just as well, he wasn’t going to succumb pointlessly to his rage and frustration.

“That last girl. I saw the pictures. Based on her clothes and the minute traces of dirt under her feet, she had tried to run away from your suspect. The rips on her clothing, that wasn’t intentional. Your killer didn’t tear it or cut it to shreds. And the dirt was in between her toes, not on her heels. She didn’t get the dirt on her feet by the killer dragging her. She tried to run. But it was a while after she’d been kidnapped because look how emaciated her body is. She’d been starved, she found a chance to escape and she took it. Except evidently, she failed. But that means that he’s not as careful as he thinks he is.”

Rossi still looked unimpressed. “That’s a nice observation, but it still doesn’t help the investigation.”

“It gives you a clue about his routines, doesn’t it?” he snapped. “You special agents always look at what’s on the inside. What _inside_ his head, what’s _inside_ his methods. You never look at what’s _outside_ the victims and the killers. Why would he have spared her the opportunity of fleeing when he’d failed to do so with the previous ones? Had he faltered; had she fought back too much for him to subdue her? Impossible - she’s a tiny thing; no match for a beast like him. So why then, Agent Rossi? Hmm? What could’ve possibly happened between them that made him hesitate. Or what could have kept him occupied or distracted enough that she had a window of opportunity to escape.”

Sherlock’s brow arched in a challenge, and his piercing eyes bore into Rossi’s unmoving face. “Did you inspect her teeth, Agent Rossi? Have you inspected what was inside her mouth and under her tongue; hidden from sight?”

Rossi remained silent which was fine with Sherlock because he wasn’t done. “Have you thought about where she might have escaped to, even if briefly? How quickly he must have recaptured her again, if you’ve not received a single report of a wild-looking girl looking for help? Wouldn’t you agree, Agent, that knowledge of these things would have helped with the case?” He pursed his lips. Rossi frowned as if he was considering the barrage of information that Sherlock had just given him.

Sherlock steepled his fingers and leaned forwards. Now this kind of waiting, he could do. Speaking of waiting, he thought about John and Emily, and suddenly he felt...well, uncomfortable. He told himself it was just because he was worried about what John might do to compromise their chances of getting involved with the case. That’s all. Of course that was all.

**{***}**

At this point, John was just curious. He’d long ago worked out the nervousness of the rigmarole of being arrested in a foreign country and etcetera. He’d even given up worrying about Sherlock because if there’s one thing Sherlock has proven time and again, it’s that he can handle himself.

At least when it came to things that were not grocery shopping.

No, now he was merely curious as to what the FBI hoped to achieve by separating them. Of course they were going to question Sherlock relentless, probably harshly. Not that John can blame them, per se. But what were they going to do to him? Question him too? About what? He hadn’t the faintest idea what Sherlock knew about their case. He was mostly along just for the ride.

He was marched into a similar interrogation room by Emily, who closed the door and surreptitiously locked it behind her.

“Have a seat, Mr Watson,” Emily offered generously, though her face was still as serious as ever.

“John. You can call me John,” he said, as he sat down. Somehow the chairs here were even colder than the ones from the last interrogation room.

“Okay, John. I’ll get straight to the point: You seem like a nice guy. What are you doing with someone like Sherlock Holmes?”

Wow, that was certainly straight to the point. “Um... we’re flatmates, really.”

She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow in a way that John assumed meant ‘ _Do go on_ ’, and not ‘ _Riiiiiiight_ ’. “I’d guess that a man like Sherlock Holmes isn’t easy to live with,” she commented casually.

John snorted, “No, he is _not_ easy to live with. Imagine having to get used to your milk being in the same fridge as a pack of severed thumbs. For experiments, he says.” John snorted again.

Now Emily looked concerned; suspicious, really. No one was that calm or dismissive when they spoke of severed thumbs in refrigerators - not unless they were the ones severing them. “And does Mr. Holmes make it a habit to...store dismembered body parts in his refrigerators?”

“What other types of ‘experiments’ does he conduct, Dr. Watson?”

John seemed to realize how his last tirade must have sounded to an outsider. Severed thumbs in the fridge? For experiments? It’s no wonder the FBI thinks they’re serial killers. He scrambled to answer Emily’s question, “Uh, yes, but he didn’t sever those thumbs himself, he got them from St. Bart’s morgue,” John laughed nervously before replying to the second question, “And experiments...yeah, he does a lot of experiments, but to help solve cases, you know. Like to find out how long it’d take for a body to form bruises after death, that sort of thing.”

Emily did not look convinced. The woman took a deep breath and leaned forward on the desk, tenting her fingers in front of her as she gazed at John with a flat, unamused expression. She was tired; it’d been a long day, and there was very little holding Hotch back from deporting them. “I’ll be honest with you, Dr. Watson,” she began, holding out a palm like a weighing scale. “Right now, as it stands, you and Mr. Holmes are looking more and more like viable suspects to our cases. Despite the fact that you’ve only just set foot on our soil, the damning things you’re saying about your ‘roommate’ -.” She made little air quotations with her fingers that made John frown. “Are just about as good as guaranteeing you a very unpleasant strip search.”

“Now,” she leaned back in her seat, crossing her leg elegantly over the other as she regarded the man with a bored expression. “Answer me this, Dr. Watson, and think _carefully_ before you speak this time.

If my boss were to _somehow_ let Mr. Holmes take part in this investigation, how can you guarantee us that we’re not just giving an international serial killer inspiration for his next targets?”

John took some time to compose himself. He was supposed to be the sensible, practical one; the one with the nerves of steel. And he knew with absolute certainty that Sherlock could help them, he just had to convince the FBI of it, since Sherlock seemed to not be able to do it.

“Look, Agent Prentiss, I understand that we got off on the wrong foot and I... _both_ Sherlock and I have said things that may not have helped our case. But Sherlock isn’t just a....a ‘wannabe detective’,” John said, as reasonably as he could, using what Morgan had called Sherlock earlier. “He’s a bit of a prick, yes, but he’s also worked with Scotland Yard on countless cases and there’s yet to be an unsolved case that he hasn’t solved. If you think my blog is just a pack of lies, then check the London press. Do you think the national press will give him the time of day if he was just a ‘wannabe detective’?”

Emily still looked dubious and was about to point out that the FBI doesn’t base their decisions on what catches the fancies of the press but John continued before Emily could speak, “You still don’t think he’s good enough? You’ve seen how...difficult it can be to work with Sherlock but Scotland Yard still recruits him on their toughest cases. I’m actually not even sure that’s legal or protocol-approved,” John frowned as he thought about the implications for Lestrade but he went on anyway, “Ever heard about the serial suicides in London a couple of years back? If it wasn’t for Sherlock, that case would still be unsolved.”

He didn’t mention how if it wasn’t for Sherlock, there would never have been such a crime in the first place. He also didn’t mention how he was the one who had to come to Sherlock’s rescue. The important point was that Sherlock figured out everything about the case before he stupidly decided to risk his life to know how and why the killer did it.

He stopped and waited for Emily to speak. He’s said enough for now.

For a moment, Emily seemed to contemplate these statements. She had heard of the suicides, but only vaguely, and through Clyde, but she _had_ heard of them. She knew, at least, that the suspected mastermind behind it all had been ‘mysteriously gunned down’ before they had the chance to question him, but she supposed many things happened ‘mysteriously’ around a man like Sherlock Holmes.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t really trust the credibility of newspapers, regardless of which side of the ocean we are,” Emily drawled. “The FBI aren’t necessarily best friends with the press. But I’ll take your point. He’s a good detective; great at what he does.” Then she cocked her head to one side, peering at the man’s face curiously.

“Aren’t you at the least bit curious though; _why_ he’s so good at what he does? Why he’s so good at getting into their heads like he does?”

John matched her tilted head, smiling coldly. “Don’t you ever wonder why _you’re_ so good at your job, Agent?”

Emily’s thin brow arched, but the woman looked impressed. “Alright,” she conceded, and suddenly her posture was relaxed; friendly even. It was as if all of this had been a test - a test that he’d apparently passed. “Tell me about Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson.”

He opened his arms with his palms facing up, a gesture of friendliness, feeling up to whatever other test Emily might want to throw at him, “What is it you want to know?”

“Let’s start with why he’s risking arrest and deportation just to get a toe in the line of this case.”

John pondered that question. Saying, ' _Because he’s an egomaniacal idiot_ ,' would probably not go over very well. So he settled for, “Because seeing an unsolved puzzle - especially one as interesting as this - drives him up the wall. He wants to know the hows and whys and whats and wheres and whos. He can’t stay away.”

“I’m pretty sure you have Cluedo in England,” Emily retorted, rolling her eyes. If she had a nickel for every time she’d heard of intrigue in unsolved puzzles, she’d be just as rich as Rossi.

John nearly jumped out of reflex just hearing the word ‘Cluedo’. No, never again would he go near a Cluedo set with Sherlock. He rubbed his wrist and said, hesitantly, “Yes, but - and he’d never admit this -  I think a part of him...a very tiny part of him...just wants to help.”

Emily arched an eyebrow yet again, and the woman was sure her thin brow would eventually stay that way by the end of it all. She said nothing to him though; merely slid herself out of her chair, and walked out the room.

John watched her go, face blank as the woman disappeared behind the deep grey door, but his fingers had begun to fidget in his lap, tapping incessantly on his thigh. That probably wasn’t a good sign; that Emily had just upped and left like that. But he had faith though, he did. He had faith in their decisions.

But most of all, he had faith in Sherlock Holmes.

**{***}**

Through the darkened window of the room, Hotch’s face was grim and unmoving as he stared at the army doctor’s fidgeting figure. He’d been tempted to look into Sherlock’s interrogation with Dave, but the man’s temper was already on dangerously thin ice; he didn’t think he’d want another migraine. Instead he watched Emily and John.

The verdict was still out on his decision.

Hotch’s eyes darted over as the door opened, and Emily stepped into the dim room. He didn’t speak, made no motion to do so until Emily had shut the door firmly behind her. “What do you think?” The question was posed so quietly it almost warranted a repeat, but Emily had long since grown accustomed to his low voice.

He was quieter when he was smothering a temper.

Emily shrugged her shoulders, but the heavy sigh that came from her lips told him she was just about as frustrated as he was. “Besides the fact that Sherlock Holmes profiles as a high functioning sociopath?” she quipped, gesturing to the man through the window. “I think John’s either got a serious case of Stockholm Syndrome, or he’s in love with the man.”

She shook her head. “You _don’t_ defend someone putting severed body parts in your fridge unless you have to, or you love it just as well.”

Hotch frowned thoughtfully. He’d heard it too. More importantly - he’d noticed John’s indifference to the eccentrism that was Sherlock. “Do you think they’re a team?” he queried, arms folded across his chest as he turned to address her now. In the dim room, his suit was almost black, and he seemed to materialize straight out of the shadows.

Emily blew out a breath, licking the corner of her lips. Were they a team? John seemed harmless enough...but then again, a lot of them were harmless in the beginning. “Honestly, no.” Then she set her dark eyes on the man with a flat, serious frown. “But I don’t think there’s a lot of times John Watson has ever said no to Sherlock Holmes.”

That was a dangerous combination, but Emily pushed on.

“...but I think, maybe...God, I’m actually saying this.” She rolled her eyes. “Sherlock Holmes could help.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've actually been sitting on 4500+ words in this new chapter for a while and we finally hunkered down and got it done last night. We hit a bit of an obstacle with the Sherlock and Rossi scene which made us despair and abandon this for a bit, but we got through it! Slowly but surely, we're venturing more and more into murky territory here, more serious crime-solving, but don't worry, the shenanigans are still going to be there! :D


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